are the limit,â Uncle Crispin said. But he turned the car around and they headed back the way they had come. Emma wasnât sorry.
Inside the joy she had felt at the news that her father had come through the operation was a sorrowful awareness that he might not have.
It was almost funny that Uncle Crispinâs celebration had ended up with her crowded into a corner of the back seat next to the bulging pillowcases. Aunt Bea was humming loudly, tunelessly. Her shopping must have made her happy.
Just before Uncle Crispin drew up in front of a supermarket, Aunt Bea startled Emma by turning to her and saying, âI expect youâre feeling let down. Oh, I donât mean this silly driveâthough I must say, it turned out nicely for meâI mean, knowing the operation is over ⦠the waiting â¦â
Her voice wasnât especially friendly. But she smiled and said, âYouâll get over that, too. Everything passes.â¦â And clutching her great pink hat, she got out of the car and went into the store.
It had been a very good supper. Even though Aunt Beaâwho had somehow gotten bits of parsley in her hairâgiggled and boasted as she explained how she had cooked the meal, Emma liked all of it. Her aunt wanted praise for everything, she had thought, for her cooking, her cream-colored stationery, her silver pen, especially her Monet poster. Praise, praise, until stuffed with it, she toppled over into sleep, or into the sofa in front of the television set.
Now, finally, Emma was alone at the top of the cliff stairway, the guide to seashore life in her hand. There might be another hour of light, though the bay was already streaked with a reddish glow from the westering sun. A delicate breeze lifted her hair from her neck. She went slowly down, stopping to touch the blades of tall, bright green grass that grew through the cracks of the weathered steps.
At the foot of the steps, a long curling strand of black seaweed lay upon the sand like a thick snake. Along the edge of the water, its head cocked as though it listened to the soft shifting of pebbles moved back and forth by the tide, a shorebird ran on thin legs. Emma sank to her knees and leaned toward it. At once, it lifted into the air and circled out over the bay. Where light did not touch it, the water was the color of dark metal.
Tonight she would cross off another day on the calendar she had drawn. Twelve days left. It didnât sound nearly as bad as two weeks. She got up shivering a littleâshe could feel the night gathering itself around her, flowing from the dark green pines above, the darkening water, the sooty eastern skyâand wandered down the beach, picking up shells and small stones. When she had all she could carry, she sat down and opened the book. From the pile of shells, she chose one that resembled a tiny ramâs horn, and found an illustration of it at once. It was a limacina.
It pleased her to find a name and a drawing of something she had picked up without thought. Did everything in the world have a name? Or were there things that were still secrets, waiting to be revealed by words?
Also in the pile were an angelâs wing, a razor clam, a pale yellow lamp shell, nearly transparent, and a large winkle that for some reason reminded her of Aunt Beaâs pink straw hat.
âHey!â said a voice nearby.
She looked up. A tall, slender girl, a year or so older than she was, she guessed, stood in front of her. She was wearing tan shorts and a blue sweatshirt. Her braided hair was the color of butter. She was smiling broadly. A ray from the setting sun touched her left ear. It was like a little flame at the side of her head.
âHello,â Emma said, getting to her feet.
âYou here for the summer?â asked the girl.
âFor twelve more days exactly,â Emma answered. âUp there.â She gestured toward the stairs that led to the log house.
âOh-ho!â the girl
Inside the joy she had felt at the news that her father had come through the operation was a sorrowful awareness that he might not have.
It was almost funny that Uncle Crispinâs celebration had ended up with her crowded into a corner of the back seat next to the bulging pillowcases. Aunt Bea was humming loudly, tunelessly. Her shopping must have made her happy.
Just before Uncle Crispin drew up in front of a supermarket, Aunt Bea startled Emma by turning to her and saying, âI expect youâre feeling let down. Oh, I donât mean this silly driveâthough I must say, it turned out nicely for meâI mean, knowing the operation is over ⦠the waiting â¦â
Her voice wasnât especially friendly. But she smiled and said, âYouâll get over that, too. Everything passes.â¦â And clutching her great pink hat, she got out of the car and went into the store.
It had been a very good supper. Even though Aunt Beaâwho had somehow gotten bits of parsley in her hairâgiggled and boasted as she explained how she had cooked the meal, Emma liked all of it. Her aunt wanted praise for everything, she had thought, for her cooking, her cream-colored stationery, her silver pen, especially her Monet poster. Praise, praise, until stuffed with it, she toppled over into sleep, or into the sofa in front of the television set.
Now, finally, Emma was alone at the top of the cliff stairway, the guide to seashore life in her hand. There might be another hour of light, though the bay was already streaked with a reddish glow from the westering sun. A delicate breeze lifted her hair from her neck. She went slowly down, stopping to touch the blades of tall, bright green grass that grew through the cracks of the weathered steps.
At the foot of the steps, a long curling strand of black seaweed lay upon the sand like a thick snake. Along the edge of the water, its head cocked as though it listened to the soft shifting of pebbles moved back and forth by the tide, a shorebird ran on thin legs. Emma sank to her knees and leaned toward it. At once, it lifted into the air and circled out over the bay. Where light did not touch it, the water was the color of dark metal.
Tonight she would cross off another day on the calendar she had drawn. Twelve days left. It didnât sound nearly as bad as two weeks. She got up shivering a littleâshe could feel the night gathering itself around her, flowing from the dark green pines above, the darkening water, the sooty eastern skyâand wandered down the beach, picking up shells and small stones. When she had all she could carry, she sat down and opened the book. From the pile of shells, she chose one that resembled a tiny ramâs horn, and found an illustration of it at once. It was a limacina.
It pleased her to find a name and a drawing of something she had picked up without thought. Did everything in the world have a name? Or were there things that were still secrets, waiting to be revealed by words?
Also in the pile were an angelâs wing, a razor clam, a pale yellow lamp shell, nearly transparent, and a large winkle that for some reason reminded her of Aunt Beaâs pink straw hat.
âHey!â said a voice nearby.
She looked up. A tall, slender girl, a year or so older than she was, she guessed, stood in front of her. She was wearing tan shorts and a blue sweatshirt. Her braided hair was the color of butter. She was smiling broadly. A ray from the setting sun touched her left ear. It was like a little flame at the side of her head.
âHello,â Emma said, getting to her feet.
âYou here for the summer?â asked the girl.
âFor twelve more days exactly,â Emma answered. âUp there.â She gestured toward the stairs that led to the log house.
âOh-ho!â the girl
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